


think of me, as i think of you

by tearfulbastard



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: homoeroticism is spicy tonight, i will make this make this mfer HURT, theo decker yearning fr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:01:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24835801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tearfulbastard/pseuds/tearfulbastard
Summary: After Amsterdam and his recovery, Theo Decker navigates the isolated and long nights of New York and his second loss of the Slavic boy who has occupied his mind ever since they first locked eyes under the Las Vegas heat.
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Kudos: 26





	think of me, as i think of you

Whilst I had begun to peel through layers of consciousness and then back into the dream-state of my deceased mother, pooling in sweat in the Amsterdam hotel, there are no words to explain my thoughts except for, quite plainly; death. I felt death dampen the carpet beneath me, soaking into my socks as it trailed through every part of my skin. It was a sticky feeling, as if I had been submerged in tar, the black material filling my mouth and throat, making me gasp for the oxygen the space around me did not supply. It was as if a black, murky figure handed me paper to sign off my life, and that there was no going back. Essentially, I had a man’s blood imprinted on me, _into_ me. Regret is a weak adjective to describe what had plunged my heart with a sword. There I was, all alone in a foreign country, visions of my mother in a white mirage, every sin I had committed boiling my body, all pushing me to write the drafts of my goodbye letter to the world. If it weren’t for the explosion, there wouldn’t be Fabritius’ little chained bird, there wouldn’t be a ghost of my mother, none of the nights at the Barbour’s, there would be no Hobie or Pippa and her sweet morphine kiss, no father and his cracked out girlfriend, and lastly, no Boris. Boris. The man who had thrown me into the deepest mess. I couldn’t help but to think about his pale, younger body curled on my sheets while I would sit awake at night thinking about my mother.

Now and then, whilst I am slightly recovering from my ordeals and turmoil, I wake up with beads of sweat dripping down my forehead and my clothes attached to my body with images of blood and the Amsterdam hotel. I’ve learnt to take all my experiences as learning opportunities, but my hands can barely hold onto the new sober lifestyle I’ve been on. That, and mending my wrongs and coming clean to every fault I’ve committed. Yet, I do not believe trying to make up for my transgressions will fix everything. Images of my life continuously torment my head as if I were tied to a chair as a masked person forces me to watch a movie displayed by a film projector, foggy and slightly unclear, showing every aching moment I’ve been through. It’s hard, to say the least. I can’t escape what I’ve done.

It’s especially difficult sitting alone at night in my bed, the New York lights creeping through my window as my brain goes through a loop, fixating on whatever it feels like will haunt me for the next hours until the sun comes up. I often think about Boris, especially. I’ve heard from him rarely, although he does send me occasional postcards from various countries with messy writing and pictures of landscapes and him attached. I don’t know why, but I always almost hoped he would stick around with me after everything, but it was an unrealistic and almost utopian daydream of mine. It simply wasn’t Boris. I like to believe he’s settled down and away from the whole business of what he was doing before, retiring the long, black coats and guns and maybe buying a nice house in the mountains. Or maybe living in an apartment in a big city to live out his socialite wet dreams. Either way, I miss him often.

Sometimes Boris will text me in weird internet lingo with funny pictures (or at least what he deems as funny), usually captioned “Vry funny! Txt or call me soon, B :^) see look! Funny face!” Every now and then, Boris will also send me badly angled pictures of himself next to European monuments, usually way too high above his head to the point where the only thing visible is his forehead, eyes and nose while he tries his best to get the structure into the frame. Even if I answer him, telling him the photo is cool, he’ll never reply or even look at the message. That goes with calling him, as well. Often, I’ll try to ring his number but I’ll hear the repeated rings into my ears until I hear his voicemail and multilingual, blended accent nearly scream “Hello, Boris is not here. Bye!”

I think I was a bit naive in the way I kept my hopes up on finding some sort of communication with the Slavic boy I had become crime apprentices with all those years ago. I had lasted all those years without him in New York, keeping my mind busy with Hobie and Pippa, but now that I sat alone for the first time in a while, my heart felt heavy. Maybe if I had pushed Boris a little more, he could’ve come back to the city with me. We could have been roommates, maybe. Boris is one hell of an ass when it comes to sharing space, but we could make it work. We could divide our space and decorate it with our contrasting definitions of architecture and design, and we could go into the city on shopping days, splitting the cash despite knowing he could afford it much better. It’s a burden not knowing where he is, what he’s thinking about and who he is with. I wonder where he goes shopping, what he wears, what he buys. What does his hair look like? Is it still shaggy, or has he started grooming himself more? Is he still well off financially? What does he do for work?

In fact, all of the thinking and fixations on him made Boris come to me in a dream, just as my mother did on the Amsterdam hotel floor. Within my new dream-state, he smiled and cursed at me playfully as I sat there, immobile and staring at this dream-Boris that stood tall and lanky at my feet.

“How are you?” I asked him, looking at the apparition of Boris in front of me. My mind conjured a clear image of him, pale and well shaved, his new toothy smile wide.

“Ah, good. Why are you on the floor?” He replied, kneeling down with his hands between his legs. I looked down to my dream body and got up.

“I missed you,” I said, my mouth feeling like chalk, dry and barely able to carry my words. Dream-Boris scrunched his nose and hit me quickly on the side of my arm.

“No need. I am here, yes?” Boris chuckled. I stared into his phantom-like eyes, making my heart beat a little faster than it did before.

I then stumbled into him, embracing him, my body replicating the warmth and comfort of Boris’ shoulder. Boris began to speak, but my dream melted away like burning plastic, the noises becoming drained of its volume as I woke up. As I sat up in my bed, my eyes burning from the lack of sleep, I noticed my arms were held out for the Boris that was not there. As I exhaled, I quickly dropped my arms as I looked around my pitch dark room, the only light being my alarm clock in bright red as it flashed “2:30 AM.”

I constantly yearn for that moment again, but to grasp his real shirt's fabric and feel his breathing, knowing he's alright. Whenever I pick up my phone, I think of sending him a funny picture. Whenever I pick up a pen, I think of writing him a letter, without remembering I don’t even know his location. I like to pray for the God whom I am not sure is out there, and ask it to bring Boris to me. I hope for my moon, my Badr, to return to the sun. Even for a moment, just a day. Sometimes, I like to believe he thinks the same.


End file.
